All Quiet on the Western Front: Continued
by Oboro
Summary: A continuation after the end of the book. Warning: contains angst, superfluous poetic imagery, and character death.


**Title:** All Quiet on the Western Front: Continued

**Author:** Oboro

**Disclaimer: **I don't own nor claim to own the amazing novel this is based on or get paid any money for writing this.

**Warning:** Angst, superfluous poetic imagery, character death

**Summary:** This continues after the end of the novel; has major spoilers if you haven't read/finished reading it.

**Note:** I wrote this for an English assignment. We had to continue the novel like the main character didn't die, and this is what I came up with. I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading it.

All Quiet: Continued

It is strange to be home again; I hear the leaves rustle peacefully outside accompanied by the laughter of children, and I wonder if I am truly still alive. It seems so surreal that I am once again lying in my own bed, my eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. I notice a crack has formed in the corner, the long vines spreading throughout the plain tope of it. It splits and breaks at random, and my mind cannot help but be reminded of blood, of how it streams down a man's face as he bleeds from some unknown wound in his head. I grimace at my disturbing thoughts, and try to slowly rise from bed.

My right leg pains me terribly, even though it isn't there anymore. Shortly after Kat was killed I lost it, and now I know how Kropp must feel. It's agonizing, and I fancy that I can still feel it there, my toes wiggling even as I hobble along. It's harder than I thought walking with crutches; I tend to trip and get the tips caught on corners, and I can only hope I will either get used to it or be able to purchase a prosthetic.

Passing by my mother's room I warily peer inside. She's still asleep, her grey hair splayed around her as she sleeps fitfully. She'll die any day now, and I almost wish I was gone so I would not have to witness her slow and inevitable decay.

After a light breakfast I head out, not wanting to be confined to that house anymore. Everything in there reminds me of who I used to be, haunting me like a ghost that constantly whispers in my ear.

It's early morning as I wobble down the streets. Hardly anyone is around at this hour, but the few that are stare unabashedly at me, their beady eyes gazing fixedly at my amputated leg. I try to ignore them as I reach the edge of town, and I keep going down the muddy road until I reach the apple orchard.

This has been a ritual of mine for some time; waking up at the crack of dawn to make my way here where I can be alone. Ever since Detering talked of his trees I make it a point to see them, marveling at their quiet elegance like I'm seeing them for the first time. And perhaps I am, seeing them with new eyes that have beheld atrocities beyond normal comprehension. But it allows me to truly see their glory, the soft white petals falling like snow as I lay beneath it..

I spend all day under my canopy of white and green, just existing as my leg throbs and I slip in and out of consciousness. When I do dose off I dream of Kat, of Tjaden and even Himmelstoss. Most of them bring a smile to my face, while others cause me to weep uncontrollably, and I am grateful the trees are my only witnesses.

It's near nightfall when I return, and the setting sun casts ominous shadows that stretch between the buildings, the black shapes reminding me of fairytale monsters. I have spent yet another day lounging in the orchard, and now I know I've turned the place into my sanctuary, or better yet purgatory. Because that's what it is. No matter how beautiful it is I cannot touch it, everything around me hidden by a thin veil to tempt and torment me with what I will never have.

Before I even step into the house I know something is amiss. It is quiet, too quiet and it's slightly unnerving as I walk back upstairs. I hear muffled voices coming from mother's room, and I open the door to see what is going on. My father is leaning over my mother, his old knotted hand grasping hers as he silently weeps. My sister is in the corner, her face buried in her hands as she wails. Mother is finally dead, and I was not there to see it. The thought strikes me like an epiphany, and I stare awkwardly at her cooling corpse. But I cannot bring myself to feel overly bad about it; she died at least somewhat peacefully. She didn't get blown up by a grenade or have her insides eaten away by poisonous gas. She died around people that loved her, and I cannot bring myself to cry even now.

Her funeral is held a few days later. Many are in attendance, even those that didn't know her. It's raining as the sermon goes under way, and pouring by the time they lower her down. I stand with my crutches, my face stern as I watch her being lowered. I vaguely hear them cry, but my mind is too focused on the smooth brown coffin, and how it blends almost seamlessly with the surrounding dirt. To my surprise I find myself envying her, envying everyone that I ever knew that now lays to rest. I come to the realization that living is too painful. It takes too much effort just to breath, and being alive doesn't mean what it once did to me. Instead of looking forward to the future I am hopelessly tangled in the past, the memories clinging to my brain like so much dirt and blood, staining my mind. The ghosts of my comrades come to me then, telling me to give up, to join them and to finally be at peace.

Afterwards I walk directly back to the house, and go through my belongings until I've found what I'm looking for. Taking my prize I head back out to the orchard, plopping to the ground under my beloved tree. I gaze around me as the dew from the rain sparkles like diamonds upon the petals and leaves. It's breathtaking, and it's a perfect setting for my end.

Cold metal bites my hand, and I look down to see my fingers grasping a pistol. I feel as if I am dreaming as I raise the barrel to my mouth. It tastes like iron, like blood. Closing my eyes I listen to the birds, to the soft breeze as it flows languidly through my hair. I think of my comrades, and how we'll see each other soon and the stories we'll tell. I smile one last time, and I wonder if they have geese in heaven as my finger pulls the trigger. My pain is gone, and finally I find the solace I have long been searching for.

_Fin_


End file.
